The Fallacy of Prophecies
by JustPretend2
Summary: Prophecies have always been such fickle things. Crack!fic


**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This fun little world belongs to JK Rowling.**

 **Notes: I... have no excuse for this story. I was reading a Naruto fanfiction, got to thinking about elements, and thought, "What if?" Then this happened. It's unrefined, possibly with typos I didn't catch, and most definitely going to be improved on at some point, but if I don't publish this, it will be stuck in my head driving me crazy _forever_.**

 **Edit: I've only just realised none of the italics made it, so I'm fixing that.**

 **oOo**

Voldemort continued to deflect the Potter boy's spells. What an infuriating boy he was, Voldemort thought.

"Will you cease your attack on me, Potter?" he asked, barely managing to remain calm. If his last deflection was a little vicious, well, no one could really blame him. "You act as if we were destined to be enemies. I understand you're upest that I killed your parents, I do, but is this necessary? I have killed plenty of parents, and none of their offspring have come after me as relentlessly as you."

He was honestly curious. The child had constantly been a thorn in his side. First interrupting his feeding from a unicorn - and hadn't that been embarassing, he must have looked a fright with blood down his face like some common muggle who didn't know proper dining etiquette - then trying to stop him from obtaining the Philosopher's Stone. It's become worse every year since.

Potter spluttered and his face became red. "You're the who's always attacking me! Because of the prophecy!"

"There are no prophecies regarding us," he said, concerned. Maybe the boy was mentally ill? _Why_ did he always attract the crazy ones? At least Bellatrix was mostly loyal. This one just wanted to assault him. _Constantly_. Regardless, there was that other part of Potter's odd statement he needed to address. "I've hardly attacked you. You've been the agressor in nearly every instance."

"I-"

"There was that time in the forest, where you _rudely_ interrupted my dining. The stone, of course, later that year. You sought me out when I had opened the chamber. Was there any other instance?" He frowned in thought. "Ah. Triwizard. It was hardly my fault Bartemius decided you would be best for the ritual."

He idly noticed the Hall had become silent, more interested in their conversation than battling each other.

"What about when you cursed my broom first year?"

"When was your first year?"

The boy screamed through his teeth. He had seen young Draco do the same when he felt his parents didn't understand him, or were purposely being obtuse, though he couldn't understand why this boy would do the same. Not his problem, he dismissed. "'91," Potter gritted. "You were possessing Quirrell."

Voldemort made a noise of understanding. "Well, I was still quite upset about the interruption in the forest, and I'm an opportunist." That was a lie. Well, the first part was. He was fairly sure the forest incident happened later. That year was fairly muddled in his memory. The truth was that the game had been frightfully dull, and he wanted to liven it up a bit.

"What about the Prophecy?" Potter asked.

"This again? There are no prophecies concerning us. I told you this. Not very long ago. Minutes ago, even."

"Yes, there is," he protested. "You marked me as your equal!"

 _That_ prophecy? He thought it was about them? The mentally ill theory he had been entertaining earlier suddenly seemed to hold more weight. "Actually, Harry," Voldemort explained carefully, hoping the use of his first name would calm him down. He bet this was Dumbledore's fault, the old fool. He should never have been put in charge of children if this is how they end up. He was glad the man was dead. "You have a lightning bolt on your forehead."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

The Dark Lord didn't answer right away, choosing his words carefully. "Well, I have an affinity for fire. Not lightning. Anyone I marked would have the same affinity, I imagine."

As one, everyone turned to the only occupant in the room who was playing with fire.

"Yes?" Hermione asked as she looked up from the fireball she was creating, seemingly unconcerned with the emotional upheaval of the Boy-Who-Lived. She absently took a step away from Dolohov, who had been hovering near her. Voldmort narrowed his eyes. He didn't like the look Dolohov was giving the girl.

Harry made a strangled noise. "But-!" He shut his mouth and took a deep breath. "The prophecy states that a _boy_ would be born. Hermione's a girl." He turned to stare at his best friend, as if waiting for her to suddenly turn into a young man before his eyes.

It partially worked.

"Er, not really, Harry. Well, not always."

The scarred boy continued to stare. Hermione shrugged.

"It was a circumcision gone wrong," she said prosaically. "The doctor suggested the change - easier to dig a hole than build a pole and all that - and my parents agreed. Luckily, I've always felt like a girl on the inside, so the change would have happened eventually, anyway."

Harry wasn't sure how much more shock he'd be able to take today. "And born as the seventh month dies?"

"Baptism."

The boy did something complicated with his face, like he was swallowing something unpleasant but necessary. The next words out of his mouth sounded resigned. "Born to the those who thrice defied him?"

Hermione gave him a scornful look. "Honestly, how am I supposed to know what Voldemort considers defying him? For all I know, my parents refused to offer up their seats to him on the tube or my grandparents refused to serve him more alcohol. You know how I feel about Divination, Harry. It's such a wooly subject."

Voldemort couldn't be certain, but the way she said 'wooly' sounded like the way other people said 'worthless.' He disagreed, though now was hardly the time to get into a debate on the merits of Divination. That could wait until later.

"However," she continued, turning to the Dark Lord, "I am interested in why you think I'm the one mentioned in this prohecy."

"You are my equal," he said as though it were obvious.

There were rebellious mutterings from some of his Death Eaters but a glare silenced them quickly. He turned back in time to see Dolohov wipe a smug and proud look from his face. Voldemort felt his ire rise.

The witch scoffed but didn't comment on it. Then, she threw Dolohov to the wolves. "Dolohov marked me as his equal. It crossed my heart and everything." She didn't turn to look at the wizard in question, but her whole being seemed to radiate _One point to me_.

The Dark Lord snarled and turned to who he had thought was one of his more loyal Death Eaters. "Have you been courting her behind my back?"

Instead of backing down, or grovelling as he half expected, the wizard drew up to his full heigh and brought his own wand up. "And if I have?"

"No one was to touch her!"

"Bellatrix tortured her though!" Potter tattled.

"She was punished most severely," he assured. "She's dead now." He kept his eyes on the filthy traitor in front of him. It was undestood that the same fate awaited him and the man didn't even have the grace to look apologetic or fearful.

Within moments spells started up between the two wizards. He noticed Hermione, soon to be his witch, dragging her little friend out of the Great Hall, gathering others that fought on her side along the way. No matter, he'll come for her after he was finished dealing with this little problem.

Only one of them would be walking out of here and he was positive it would be him.


End file.
